You’re like a muscled Mother Teresa, Hanna wanted to snap. “Well, I think I’ll pass.”
“You’re going to pass on a fitness class that’s going to kick your ass? Why, because everyone else doesn’t look like they stepped out of Vogue?”
He was talking awfully loudly. Hanna looked around cautiously. The whip-thin girl at the check-in desk scanned two members’ cards, the machine making two efficient little beeps. A college-age guy sprinted on the treadmill, his floppy blond hair bouncing. What if someone had been listening, someone from Rosewood Day? If anyone caught wind of this, she would be the school’s biggest loser—in more ways than one.
Vince gave Hanna a knowing look. “I think I understand what’s going on. You don’t have it in you. It’s not called boot camp because it’s easy. You don’t have the mental edge to go through such a rigorous program.”
Hanna sniffed indignantly. “This has nothing to do with my mental edge.”
“Nah, forget it.” Vince waved his hand. “I should have seen the signs. Not everyone is cut out for this class—you have to really want wellness, really be ready to go for it. Don’t worry about it, Hanna. I thought you were tough enough for it—but it’s cool.”
“I’m plenty tough,” Hanna said so loudly that a twenty-something girl in a Hollis sweatshirt by the mats glanced up in alarm. “I’m sure I’m tougher than all of those other . . . people in there.”
Vince squared his jaw. “Okay, then. Prove it to me. Show me you’re serious.”
His voice sounded gruff and stern, but his eyes were soft, almost yearning. Once again, Hanna felt a tiny inkling that he might be interested in her. And just knowing someone liked her eased the loneliness she felt whenever she thought about Lucas’s MIAness. If she walked out of here, condemning the fitness retreat and its overweight participants, Vince would probably never speak to her again. And she hated that he thought she was a quitter. It was practically synonymous with loser—and there was no way she was going to be a loser ever again.
“All right,” she groaned. “I guess I’ll give it another shot. But I have one condition. I am not wearing one of those muumuus.” She pointed to the T-shirt Vince was holding.
Vince shrugged and clapped his hand on Hanna’s arm. “It’s a deal.”
Chapter 7
Mazel Tov!
Two hours later, Hanna slumped into the Prius, barely able to move. Vince was definitely right about one thing: The boot camp was anything but a relaxing spa experience. She had never squatted, kicked, jogged in place, bicep-curled, or sweat so much in her life. Vince jam-packed the session with so many activities, Hanna had barely noticed the other people in the class except when one of them collapsed in exhaustion or whined that they couldn’t do one more bicycle crunch. The only person who stood out was Dinah. She kept pushing her boobs in Vince’s face and asking if her poses were right. One time she even made him stand behind her while she was squatting, his hand on her back and dangerously close to her butt, just to be sure she was working the correct muscle group. Her shameless flirting reminded Hanna of Brooke, which made her feel nauseated about Lucas all over again.
She pulled into the driveway of her house, wanting nothing more than to crawl into bed and watch hours and hours of bad TV. Strangely, her father’s car was still in the driveway—not at Longwood Gardens. And the Christmas decorations that had festooned the front of the property were gone. When she opened the front door, it no longer smelled like fresh pine and cinnamon sticks but more like . . . potato pancakes?
“Hanna!” Mr. Marin appeared from the kitchen. “There you are! Come in, come in! We have a surprise for you!”
He whisked Hanna through the living room, but not before she noticed that the mechanical Mrs. Claus had vanished, the Christmas tree was unlit, and the stockings that had hung over the fireplace—there were monogrammed ones for Isabel, Kate, and Hanna’s dad, and a blank one presumably for Hanna—had been taken down. The old silver menorah Bubbe Marin had given Hanna’s parents sat on the mantel. Three candles blazed.
“What’s going on?” Hanna asked suspiciously.
Mr. Marin turned Hanna toward the dining room. There was a huge spread of food on the table, and Kate and Isabel were sitting in high-backed chairs, tepid smiles on their faces. “Surprise!” Mr. Marin crowed. “Happy Hanna-kah!”
Hanna blinked at the items on the table. There were all the traditional Hanukkah foods her grandmother used to serve: latkes, jelly donuts called sufganiyot, kugel, chocolate coins, and a large brisket. Off to the side were the old dreidels she and her cousins had spun for hours, turning the game into a kind of truth or dare—if the dreidel fell on the gimel side, Tamar, her younger cousin, had to steal a dollar out of her mother’s wallet, and so on. A blue foil banner with Star of David cutouts was draped across the windows, and candles glowed around the room. Small gifts wrapped in silver paper sat on everyone’s plates.
“I thought you guys were going to Santa’s Village,” Hanna said slowly.
“Oh, we can do that any day,” Mr. Marin said. “I thought you might be a little upset since we’re doing so many Christmas activities, so we thought we’d celebrate our holiday tonight! Hanukkah—or Hanna-kah!” He gestured to the food on the table. “Kate and Isabel did some baking this evening, though some of this came from the kosher deli near Ferra’s Cheesesteaks.”
“Your dad says you know all of the Hanukkah stories, Hanna,” Isabel said politely. “I’d love to hear them.”